


If A Wanderer Wanders

by ChuckleVoodoos



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Creepy Fluff, M/M, POV Outsider, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 18:44:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3179108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChuckleVoodoos/pseuds/ChuckleVoodoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If a wanderer wanders, they might one day wander into the woods. If a wanderer wanders into the Woods, they might one day wander across the Beast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If A Wanderer Wanders

**Author's Note:**

> I try to write something creepy, and instead I get this weird tangle of fluffy, ugly yarn. Fluffy, ugly, obscure yarn. I blame television. And my twisted mind. That too.
> 
> Oh, now with fanart from the absolutely perfect Teatham! 
> 
> http://teathamgsm.tumblr.com/post/111833812115/draw-for-chucklevoodooss-if-a-wanderer-wanders

If a wanderer wanders, they might one day wander into the woods.

 

This is simple, the way of things in life. There are many woods to wander, and many wanderers to wander them. And so a wanderer might easily wander into one, and once they have wandered in they might wander across a beast.

 

Of course, there are many beasts in many woods, and none of them are particularly special. A wanderer may walk through these woods from start to finish, and they might see a bee, or a bird, or perhaps even a bear, but most of the time these beasts are busy with their own beastly business and they do not care to interfere with a wanderer’s way. And there is a start and a finish in most woods, and one can only be so deep into the woods before they begin to be out of it again.

 

This is not most woods, however, and the beast inside of it is certainly not most beasts.

 

It is, in fact, The Woods, and if a wanderer wanders into the Woods, they might wander across the Beast.

 

In the Woods where there is the Beast, there are wondrous sights to behold, of course. A wanderer could not say otherwise. There are haggling horses and frogs in frippery and cities made of cirri. There are wondrous smells too, and tastes and textures and things to tickle any other sense a wanderer could think of.

 

Most of all, however, there are wondrous _sounds_. The forest hums with soaring melodies and choruses, each one blending into a harmony that soothes the very soul. It is by far the most haunting aspect of the Woods, the most likely to lure unsuspecting travelers in and root them to the ground with sorrow and song.

 

There are birds that can rhyme as sweetly as they chirp, and rivers that can sing like choirs of angels, and trees that whisper to each other in rounded, chanting tones. Really, one could become enchanted by the sounds in the forest, and never notice until too late that the sounds as sweet as candied apples on the outside hide rotten, bitter cores.

 

If a wanderer wanders long enough and listens very closely, they might hear another sound. They might hear a boy’s voice, high and clear, singing a lullaby.

 

The lullaby will change every time it is heard, but bits and pieces will remain the same. There will be a bluebird with a brave heart, a woodsman who loves a little girl with all his soul, and a little boy that speaks to everything from frogs to rocks and is cherished by all. It will not be not a sad song, exactly, because love will thrum in every note, but it will be wistful. Musing on things long lost. Every time the boy sings a lullaby, the forest will shiver and shake and every other sound in the woods will go silent. Listening, longing, _swaying_ towards the sound.

 

If a wanderer wanders the way the trees waver, they will quickly find themselves on a path where things are brighter and lighter than anywhere else in the forest. They might even find a place where the light licks against the pressing shadows of the groaning trees, dancing with it instead of battling, and at that place they might find a boy who sings and the lantern that he carries.

 

If a wanderer sees the boy, they might find him both very lovely and very lonely indeed. None of the other creatures will venture near the boy, who wanders through the wood with no path at all to guide his way. No, the boy will know every inch of the forest, even as it swells and shifts around him. The creatures will not flee the boy, not exactly; instead they will flee the darkness that seems to cling after every one of the boy’s footfalls like dark water sluicing from his skin. The boy will be quite beautiful, in a fey kind of way; slender and delicate, too pale and eyes too dark. He will not often smile, but when he does it will glow like an ember in his face, flickering warm with the potential for more. If the boy does smile, the forest will moan and creak, boughs bowing in an effort to get near.

 

If a wanderer sees the boy smile, they should be wary indeed of straying off the path, for the Beast is jealous of all its creatures, but the boy most especially so. And his smiles the Beast guards as a dragon does gold. Seeing a smile is stealing one from the Beast, and stealing from a Beast is rarely a wise thing to do. The Woods will become menacing where once they were mysterious, the shadows sinister where once they were seductive. Every root will seek to trip, every bramble to trap, anything to keep a wanderer from wandering too near to the boy.

 

If a wanderer calls out to the boy when he smiles, the boy will answer back, asking for a story. It may seem a strange request indeed, from a creature that sings so very many stories already. The boy will never tread close to the path, as it is not his to tread. Still, it might feel as though he gets nearer even as he never takes a step, for the light from the lantern and the light from his skin will stray close enough to warm a weary wanderer, but never close enough to touch.

 

If a wanderer shares a story, even a very silly one, the boy will settle on the forest floor to listen, knees drawn up to his chest and a look of delight on his pale face. It is an innocent gesture, and all at once the boy will look less like a spirit and more like a child, eagerly awaiting a story with artless awe. Around the boy there will grow a ring of flowers, all kinds and shades, each more lovely than the last. They will sprout around him like a nest made of blossoms and leaves, and as a wanderer speaks, they will grow higher and nearer until they can wind around the boy’s ankles in a gentle embrace. When the story is done, the boy will thank a wanderer and pluck the flowers from where they cling around him. With nimble fingers quick from practice, the boy will weave a delicate chain of the blooms, as long as a chain as a wanderer’s story has been spun. When he is done weaving, the boy will open the little latch on the lantern and toss the blossoms inside. The light in the lantern will flare sudden and strong.

 

If a wanderer asks the boy why he burns the beautiful flowers, the boy will reply it is because he does not want to burn wood. The boy will say that flowers burn brighter, and they do not weep so much as the wood does. Stories, the boy will say, hurt less to part with than other things do. A wanderer might be confused, because he has told no story to the boy, only seen him smile and pluck flowers from the ground. The boy’s lips will still smile, but his eyes will not, and he will thank a wanderer again for a story that has been untold and warn a wanderer to stay to the path.

 

If a wanderer does not wander, but stays to the path and tarries awhile, they might see a creature slip from the shadows towards the boy. The shadows will seem to seep out from him like blood from a wound, and the light around the boy will press tightly against his skin, all the brighter for its retreat, shrinking from the creature in a way that the boy does not. The creature, which can be described as nothing less than a Beast, glides steadily towards the boy with fingers outstretched. One spidery digit will stray against the dull metal of the lantern for a moment or two, but soon all of them will be upon the boy, trailing across his shoulders, smoothing down his collar, stroking through his hair.

 

If a wanderer tarries awhile more, he will see the ember of the boy’s smile catch alight, all heat and welcome and happiness. They will see the sickle-moon grin stretch across the blackness of the creature’s formless face, the way that the creature’s eyes glow with strange rings of color and light.

 

If a wanderer has seen the grin of the Beast before, a gaping maw curved to a crescent's bow, they might shiver and fear for the boy, because a Beast that smiles is seldom a good omen for the one it smiles at. But after a moment, a very clever wanderer may see that the Beast’s smile is not edged with the sinister mirth of phantom teeth, but rather with a peculiar indulgence that softens its sharp corners into something tender. The smile is one of acknowledgement, of affection, of _adoration._

 

If a wanderer watches, for perhaps longer than he should, he will see the grazing touches of the Beast drift to the boy’s skin, leaving feather-light traces along the boy’s brow, cheeks, lips. The Beast will trace the curve of the boy’s smile with something like reverence in its eyes. The boy’s smile will widen against the caress, and he will reach out as well, the only being to touch a Beast and smile.

 

If a wanderer watches instead of wandering, and the lantern held in the crook of the boy’s arm swings too close, a wanderer might see pieces and patches of a Beast built of more than shadows. A Beast, indeed, built of the worst parts of the worst beasts and behemoths, cobbled together in a patchwork of perversity. The Beast will shy away from the light, perhaps understanding its ugliness, perhaps simply averse to anything shining and pure, but the boy will not do the same, and slowly, slowly, the Beast will press closer again. It will wrap around the boy in a boneless twist, cradling the boy with spidery shadows and shabby shrouds, and the boy will not scream and struggle. He will laugh, and run hands across the bumps and lumps of the creature’s odd form as easily as stroking a cat’s back.

 

If a wanderer watches and the Beast does not, too entranced by its boy, they will see the way the Beast slopes its nebulous form downward, crooning, so that it may press its face against the boy’s, ruddy bloody flesh against smooth ivory. They will see the way the boy leans forward and presses back, nuzzling against the monstrous form. It will not quite be a kiss, for the Beast’s mouth is lipless and loose and not made for kissing, but the boy will not care, pressing soft lips to the corner of the lax mouth of the Beast, lingering before pulling away with a grin brimming with gladness. The Beast will smile back, brutal in a way that bliss should never be, and murmur to the boy, wrapping him closer and tighter as though catching him in a web.

 

If a wanderer stays very still and is not seen, the Beast will pull away only enough so that it may cloak the boy’s shoulders with one shadow-veiled, far-too-long arm, and guide the boy away from the path. The lantern will rock between them, a metronome of light nodding along to the purring rhythm of the Beast’s words, too low to hear but hypnotic despite their haziness. The boy will laugh again and whisper something back, something that makes the Beast tremble with what passes for laughter in a creature that cannot do more than snicker and sneer. The mismatched, impossible pair will fade into the Woods as though they had never been there, and a wanderer may (should) continue along the path as the boy advised them to. They may even find their way to where they are going, and once they get there they would do well to forget the strange things that they have seen in the Woods. Most assuredly they should not look over their shoulder until the Woods are well out of sight.

 

If a wanderer is not still or silent enough, perhaps sighing or snapping a twig underfoot, things will seem for a while to go very much the same. The Beast will gather the boy into the arc of his arm and lead the boy away, and the boy will laugh and the Beast will tremble and the two will vanish between the trees as though they never were. However, just for a moment, the moment before the Beast and the boy fade away, the Beast will tilt his great horned head and turn just a little, and he will _see_ a wanderer and remember them well. He will not forget and he will not forgive. For the boy’s smiles he guards as gold, but the boy’s smiles _for him_ are more precious even than diamonds, and them he does not share with anyone.

 

A wanderer may think that they are safe, if the Beast sees them, for after all the Beast is gone with the boy and the forest sings once again. The path is clear and wide and the trees seem to be thinning up ahead, and a wanderer must be nearing the end of the Woods after such a long time walking. A smile of their own might cross a wanderer’s face, for despite the warnings they have received the Woods seem not to be so terrible after all. And a wanderer might see some flowers along the way, or perhaps some shiny stones or pretty pebbles, and they will think that just a step off the path won’t do any harm, just a step. Just enough to take something, something to remember the Woods and the song and the boy by, after a wanderer is home and safe.

 

If a wanderer steps off the path, they will very soon find that the Beast is not as gone as the wanderer assumed. Indeed, the Beast is not one bit as gone as a creature that has been gone should be. A wanderer will find, as they bend down to grasp (steal) some little piece of the Woods to call their own, that a strange, heavy shadow falls over them, and that the very ground moves under. Bizarre bloodshot vines will slither from the ground like serpents and wrap around a wanderer, nothing like the way the blossoms and shadows wrap around a boy. The vines will catch and cut, bind and bite into the very bones of a wanderer, and very soon a wanderer will find that they are more winding weed than wandering wanderer. The Beast will lean close, and break off a single twig, perhaps once a finger or a toe, and it will turn it in its fingers and sigh. ‘Flowers burn brighter, but wood burns better, and the boy needn’t know,’ it will say, and break off a few more bits and pieces, gathering them into his cloak. ‘The boy needn’t know. All he needs is to sing and smile and stay, and all will be well. Well, for most of us.’

 

If a wanderer wanders, they should take care to wander away from the Woods, or else they will find that they cannot wander much at all.


End file.
